


Demise

by Nothing_is_Real



Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Character Death, Gen, I'm Sorry, I’m totally okay in the head, Murder, Sad Ending, bad life choices, this is what I do during self quarantining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:46:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23540092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nothing_is_Real/pseuds/Nothing_is_Real
Summary: Every action has an equal, opposite reaction. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.Aka Rick comes across a very interesting website when he’s browsing the internet...
Comments: 5
Kudos: 12





	Demise

**Author's Note:**

> Modern era AU, set in the 2010’s. Logically, this could’ve been in ‘81, but they have a laptop and phone and stuff, so...
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. None of the following events have ever happened in real life. I do not own Pink Floyd or their music.

Rick Wright never wanted to kill Roger Waters.

He might hate him, yes—after all, the damned bastard injured him a thousand times, took away his job, and ruined his career—but he never actually wanted him _dead_. Rick always considered himself a morally decent person. Sometimes, however, even the kindest, most thoughtful, most hesitant of people acted upon impulse.

That day, he was browsing the internet on his laptop. He must’ve been drinking, too, to have done what he’d done. And suddenly, by chance, he came across a pop-up window. It was a bit creepy, now that he thought of it. The background was a dark shade of grey, and in the middle of the webpage was a polygonic insignia and a huge, red word that read,

“Demise.”

Below that, there was a line of subtext. “There’s always some people in this world that we want to get rid of. Write down his/her name, and your wish will be granted in no time.”

Rick stared at the screen for a long time, his eyes glued to those words. Hell, this was interesting. He took another swig of the liquor, and tried to think. Who did he want dead? Look at his life right now. Alone, in a dingy flat, chugging a bottle of whiskey. There must’ve been someone who caused his suffering, someone who he could blame for all of this—

Roger.

That was it. Roger. His ex-bandmate. He felt all the things coming back to him, and he smashed a fist into his desk. And without further delay, he began to fill out all the blanks:

 _What is your name?_ Rick Wright.

 _What is his/her name?_ Roger Waters.

 _What do you want it to look like?_ Suicide.

Submit.

The webpage froze for a brief moment, before a screen of blue covered the display and his laptop shut down.

He panicked a little, for he realised that the webpage might contain a virus, and quickly tried to turn his laptop back on. Thankfully, it worked. And while he scrolled through his files, he noticed that there was nothing different. Huh. That webpage was probably just a joke.

He thought so, and gradually forgot about it, until two weeks later, on Thursday.

It was early in the morning, and he just woke up. He’d been drinking last night again, so he had a horrible hangover. Could barely keep his eyes open without his head hurting. And obviously, a loud, shrill ringing of a phone call at this time was the most unwelcome thing that could possibly happen right now.

“Hello?” he grumbled into his phone, hoping that whoever it was on the other end of the line could tell he was annoyed.

“Rick,” It was David. He spoke in staggered, broken syllables, as if he’d been running, “Rog—he’s—he’s—”

“He’s what?” the words came out harsher than he intended, but Rick was getting more irritated by the second. He sighed. Perhaps that was what the drugs and excess alcohol had been doing to him.

“Roger—” he heard David take a deep breath, “He’s dead.”

For a moment, Rick wasn’t sure what to say. It felt like getting struck by lightning.

“Sorry, what?” he finally managed to sputter out. What did he just hear?

“Roger’s dead,” David repeated, “Could you come over?”

Rick held the phone close to his ear. His hands were shaking. How did that happen? Roger was young. He was healthy. Perhaps it’s an accident or something, he thought.

Then the night came crashing to his head like a thunderstorm. Browsing the internet. Coming across that suspicious site. Filling out the blanks. Pressing submit—

He took a step back. No, no, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be. That website was just a joke; it didn’t even do anything. But he just couldn’t convince himself that this was all simply a coincidence. What were the odds?

“How?” he whispered.

“He hung himself.”

“He hung himself?!” Rick could not hide his incredulity. Roger Waters, the great Roger Waters, hanging himself? Simply inconceivable. “It was a suicide?”

There was a pause at the end of the line. “We don’t know for sure yet. Nick was the one who found him; he said he left a note in his room.”

Suicide. Rick was suddenly hit with a strike of horror again. He asked for it to be disguised as a suicide.

He was becoming increasingly sure that this wasn’t a coincidence.

“Rick, listen,” David was speaking again, “I know Roger wasn’t such a good guy for doing all this to you, and us—but could you please just come to the hospital?”

“Yeah, yeah. Right,” said Rick, “I’m coming.”

He hung up, and leaned back against the wall, breathing heavily.

What the hell had he done?

The piercing fluorescent light in the morgue made everything seem awfully ghostly, from the tiled floor to the metallic lockers to the white sheets that covered their bandmate’s body. They’d contacted Roger’s family, who were all in his hometown, Cambridge, and they were coming to London by train. So now it was just the three of them—David, Nick, and Rick.

It was undeniable that from time to time, each of the three had secretly wished that Roger could go away and they’d never have to talk to him again. Roger was never nice to them when he was living, but things didn’t get any better now that he’s dead.

He was under the influence of alcohol, they told them. No sign of struggle.

“Nick,” David asked, his voice trembling as he stared at Roger’s motionless face, “What did his note say?”

“Uh… he said, well, he said,” Nick swallowed heavily, “He said that he hated who he was becoming, and he couldn’t go on like that. And that he’s sorry.”

There was a momentary silence, and David burst into tears. He collapsed into Rick’s arms, and Rick clenched his friend’s shoulders to prevent him from falling further.

“It’s so not worth it,” David sobbed into his jacket, “All the times I’ve fought with him. It’s so not worth it!”

Rick felt waves of guilt washing him down as he watched his friend bawl his eyes out. For a second he almost considered telling them, but then decided against it. That’s a secret he’d keep for the rest of his life, as long as it lasted.

They walked out of the front door of the hospital together before parting ways. An unbreakable silence had befell them, wordless threads nevertheless connecting their minds and hearts. As Rick sat alone in his car, his thoughts travelled back to the days when the band had just started. Syd was still with them; Roger wasn’t so insufferable back then. When was it that things began to fall apart? Perhaps it’s when Syd became more absent by the day and David joined to fill in that empty space. Perhaps it’s during the recordings of _Wish You Were Here_ , when the band was exhausted creatively. Perhaps it’s when Roger proposed the idea for _The Wall_ , and the rest of them felt they had no more say. Or perhaps the seeds of division had been planted once the band formed.

_And then one day you find,_   
_Ten years have got behind you…_

The _ding!_ of an incoming text on his phone snapped him back into reality. He picked up the phone, and saw a message from an unknown number.

_Your target, Roger Waters, has died according to your request. Please abide to our rules and eliminate the next target of the system within the next three weeks—David Gilmour, lead guitarist of Pink Floyd. Address 992 Grant Street, Westminster, London. Please disguise your deed as an accident._

Above the text was a photo of David.

Rick dropped his phone in horror. What, what on earth was this?

He bent forwards awkwardly and retrieved his phone from the ground before re-reading the text three times. The next target of the system. What did that mean? Did he have to kill him now?

And how the hell did they actually know who he was? He only entered his name into the thing, right?

... Oh, well, IP addresses.

He scrolled up to the photo of David. And in the corner of that picture, there like a watermark, was the insignia he’d seen on the website he came across that night he was drunk. From a distance it looked like it could be anything, but when he happened to zoom in on it, he saw a line of words that circled it.

He turned his phone in angles as he read them aloud.

“Every action has an equal, opposite reaction. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.”

Rick felt his blood run cold. He understood now.

The following few weeks were absolute torture for Rick. He spent all his time moping, drinking, and getting high. Not as if he wasn’t doing that before—that’d been the norm for him ever since he got kicked out of the band—but it just seemed to get worse now. Day by day, he wandered his flat like a zombie, cold, numb, and soul-departed.

Doing that, however, didn’t solve any of his problems. Someone else had killed Roger for him. Someone entered David’s name into that website, after he’d entered Roger’s. Now it’s his turn to kill David. As simple as that, as complicated as that. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost.

David. He felt his insides turn sore whenever he thought of that. David had done nothing wrong.

Rick decided that perhaps he could get things straight through inaction. But quickly, he realised that that wasn’t going to work. Miraculously, he began to get into all kinds of misfortune. One morning he woke up and couldn’t seem to find his laptop. He ended up discovering it smashed on the concrete outside the block of flats. Barely a week later, when he was trying to change a lightbulb that had been dead for months, the entire chandelier somehow fell off. It missed his head by an inch.

And the next day, when he was on his way to get the groceries, he got hit by a biker and broke his ankle pretty bad.

“I’m so sorry, Rick,” Nick and David came to visit him at the hospital. He sat miserably in the bed, but managed to crack a smile to his friends, assuring them that he’s alright. At least he didn’t have to stay long. The doctor said he’d be discharged the next day, if nothing else went wrong.

When he returned to his flat, however, he found a letter in his mailbox. It seemed perfectly innocuous at first glance, but when he ripped open the envelope and looked at its contents, he felt cold sweat trickling down his neck.

_Get rid of the target ASAP, or next time it won’t be just a broken ankle._

Printed on the lower right-hand corner of the paper was none other than the “Demise” insignia.

Rick wiped his forehead. So there was actually no way out of here, was there?

He only had one question. Who the hell would want David Gilmour dead? David, unlike Roger, rarely offended anyone, if he did at all. And without thinking, he grabbed his phone and texted, to that mysterious number—

_Who was it?_

He felt stupid as soon as he pressed send. As if anyone would reply. And as if they’d want him to know.

In contrary to his expectation, however, he saw a message pop up a mere few seconds later.

_An old friend of yours._

Rick stared at his display for a long moment, before bowing his head and looking down at his feet. A choked laughter escaped the depths of his throat. Indeed, the seeds of division had been planted in the Floyd’s earliest days.

He couldn’t quite blame him. David’s arrival in the band had completely sealed his absence. And anyone who saw that webpage would probably think it’s some stupid prank, anyways.

Except it wasn’t, and once you fell in, there was no turning back.

Roger’s death was ruled a suicide. It hogged the headlines of every news circulation for a day or two, before dying down a bit. People still talked about it, though. And Rick tried to block all of it out of his sight, so he didn’t have to be constantly reminded of it—although he still was.

He waited for his ankle to heal for a few days before taking action. In those few days he was careful not to leave the house or to touch anything that could be a potential danger—heavy objects, the stove, the microwave—in case they might be sabotaged.

He was nervous, of course. He’d planned everything beforehand, yet he was still scared as hell. But there wasn't anything he could do about it. And if he was forced to choose, he’d rather not die a half-expected, half-unexpected death. That was the worst. It was like you’d stopped at the top of a roller coaster tracks. You knew it’s gonna happen, but you didn’t know when it would.

And if he were to let himself get killed, someone else would have to do it either way.

In the evening he sat restlessly at the pub, letting the dim light and the loud noise suffocate him as he sat drinking a shot.

“Hey, Rick.”

He looked up as his about-to-be victim sat down in the chair opposite him. “’Evening, Dave,” he gave him a strained smile.

David’s figure cut him like a razor blade, and he couldn’t help that feeling of dread that pooled up in his stomach.

“You seem tired,” David remarked, looking at Rick with real concern in his eyes.

“I know,” he replied, “You do, too.”

David sighed. “A lot’s happened. I still can’t believe he did that,” Rick knew who “he” referred to without asking. “Perhaps… he wasn’t who we thought he was.”

Rick picked up on David’s use of past tense, and he felt his heart tighten.

“I hadn’t seen him for months. Not since the tour,” he paused. He never thought he’d be asking this, “How’s he been?”

“He was—well, his usual self,” David let out a dry, humourless laugh, “I know you might not want to hear this, Rick, but sometimes Roger does have my sympathies.”

“I know. I wasn’t contributing towards the end, I know that.”

“That’s not what I meant,” David downed the rest of his shot and ordered another. “Roger had a rough childhood. Nearly no one was kind towards him, and he doesn’t forget something like that. Despite using us as his outlet, he’s still gonna crack, sooner or later.”

Rick blinked as he stared at his glass. He wanted to believe that David was right; that way, things would’ve been a lot less complicated. But it wasn’t.

He wondered what Roger must have been thinking in the last moments of his life. Or before he fell away into unconsciousness. He probably didn’t even know the person who’d come to kill him. And he definitely didn’t know why he was getting killed. Perhaps if he had time, he could figure it out; but he didn’t have any.

It was too late to regret anything now, though.

“I’m really sorry, David,” he said. He had to stay on this subject. David always let down his guard and drank a lot when he’s sad. “I’m not as strong as you. There were times when, when I just couldn’t put up with him, and he couldn’t put up with me.”

“’s not your fault.” David sniffed ruefully.

“Sometimes I thought I wished he was dead. Especially when we get into an argument at the studio, when I’m completely defenseless against him. But in the end I realised I really didn’t,” he was being brutally honest here.

“I—I understand, Rick.”

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” Rick buried his head in his hands. There was so much he had to apologise to David for, for things that had happened and the things that were to come. And he had to do it right now, because he would never be able to after. He wanted to cry, to weep for his sins, but his eyes were as dry as a marker that was out of ink.

The two men sat and drowned out their sorrows in the alcohol. Rick tried to be careful with the amount he drank, so he’d still remember what he was here for, but in the end he gave up. There was too much to think of, and he wanted to be free of all that when he did it.

He stood up.

“Dave—you wanna go outside and smoke a fag?”

“Oh… sure.”

The air outside was cool and a bit chilly, pleasantly refreshing to Rick’s lungs although the night never seemed more dreary. It’d just rained this afternoon, and the ground was still wet, the cobblestone glistening under the street lamps.

They turned into an empty alley behind the pub. Rick lit a cigarette and offered his lighter to David.

“Rick… ”

David looked up at him with a pair of half-focused blue eyes.

“I’m really sorry, too.”

“I—” Rick suddenly found himself lost for words. David turned to look away into the distance, past the lamppost beside him.

Rick drew in a sharp breath. His chance was now.

Reaching out a hand, he gave David a push in the arm.

Under normal circumstances, that push would’ve done nothing at all, but now that David was somewhat drunk, it made him lose his balance. And in that process—Rick had estimated the distance, and it worked—his head hit hard on the lamppost, and he seemed to go unconscious as he fell to the ground.

Rick stood motionless for a moment or two, before leaning down and feeling David’s pulse. Still there, steady and strong, of course; the impact would do him no more than a concussion. Now for the second part of the plan.

He took out his lighter from his pocket again and hit the button lightly. The small flame burst out, and he watched it flicker in the dark of night.

His hands were shaking.

Rick wiped his forehead. _Come on,_ he urged himself, _you have to do this. Light the flames, and leave the lighter there, and everyone would think he’d tripped and it just accidentally lit on. No one would suspect that it’s you._

But his fear did not subside. Instead, he found himself shaking even harder, barely able to stand straight. He clicked the flame out. He couldn’t do it. Not to a living, breathing human being, and especially not to his friend.

He had to seek some other way to finish this. Some way that’d cause him less suffering.

It was just then, when his eyes were struck by the headlight of some car that had just turned into the alley. An idea flashed through his mind. Giving it his full strength, he hauled David up from the ground and hurled him into the road.

And he ran.

The splintering noise of metal on flesh echoed out in the alleyway. Bones shattering, blood flowing. Rick stifled a scream and ran as fast as he could, leaving the traces of his crime behind.

The world was spinning around him, twisting and morphing into a thousand little worms that crawled around in his head. The bitter taste of bile rose in his throat, and he clasped a hand over his mouth and forced himself to keep it in. It went away soon after, was replaced by something else, something he couldn’t quite put a finger on.

He kept running, crossing the busy streets of the city, until he reached his flat. Swiftling unlocking the door, he stumbled in and slammed it shut, walling himself off from the rest of the world.

Silence fell. Rick stood alone in the dark, not bothering to turn on the light. There was no confusion in him anymore, just despair and regret. He understood, for all of it, that there would be no more Pink Floyd from tonight on. Never. It wasn’t only Roger’s demise, or David’s. It was his demise. It was Syd’s demise. His final one, that is. It was the Floyd’s demise.

 _Lucky you, Nick, you have nothing to do with this._ He prayed that Nick never found out. He didn’t want him to live his life knowing what happened between his bandmates, and how one single stupid move Rick had made resulted in all of this.

His lungs hurt with every breath, and his heart ached with every beat. He felt as if he’d been mad and over the edge for years, and it’d just all cracked now.

He reached a hand out towards nothing.

“Speak to me.”

The night had come down, but there was nothing he could do.

**Author's Note:**

> That was really bad. I got this idea when watching an old episode of a reality TV show called "Who's the Murderer". As you can see I’m totally not okay in the head 😂. Also that is not David's real address (I made it up). Hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
